Painted Return (Advantage #2)

1. South Kensington

Chapter one

South Kensington

The smell of fresh bread was inescapable.

It crept through the floorboards, curled under the bedroom door, and settled into the sheets like a third person in the bed.

Every morning, without fail, Pierre Moreau was up at four, firing the ovens, kneading dough with the same stubborn, flour-dusted hands that had built a bakery in Montreuil — the working-class Paris suburb where Andre had grown up — from nothing.

Now those hands built something new in South Kensington, one of London’s most elegant neighborhoods, where the white-fronted Victorian terraces stood in quiet, moneyed rows.

Blake lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, the pale London light filtering through the bay windows. Beside him, Andre was still asleep, one arm thrown across Blake’s chest, his dark curls pressed against Blake’s shoulder. His breathing was slow and even, his lips slightly parted.

Three years. It had been three years since Blake had kissed Andre on the court at Arthur Ashe Stadium, three years since his father, Dr. Richard Harlan, had stood up from his seat, turned his back, and walked out of the stadium without a word.

Three years since the world had exploded and then, gradually, lost interest.

They weren’t a scandal anymore. They were just Blake and Andre.

Blake turned his head, pressing his nose into Andre’s hair.

He smelled like turpentine and sleep and something faintly sweet — probably the lavender shortbread Claire had been testing the night before.

Andre had been her willing subject, eating three pieces while offering detailed critiques on the texture of the crumb.

“You are breathing on me,” Andre mumbled, his voice thick and rough with sleep.

“Sorry.”

“No you are not.”

Blake smiled.“ No. I’m not.”

“Imbécile,” Andre murmured, but there was no heat in it. Just warmth.

Andre shifted, rolling onto his back, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. He squinted at the light coming through the windows, then turned to look at Blake. “What time is it?”

“Almost seven.”

“Why are you awake at seven? You do not have practice until ten.”

“Your father woke me up. He’s banging around down there like he’s building a cathedral.”

Andre groaned, pulling the pillow over his face. “He does this every morning. He thinks the bread will not rise if he is quiet.”

From below, as if on cue, came the muffled sound of Pierre’s voice, raised in what sounded like an argument with the oven. Claire’s calmer tone followed, a gentle counterpoint that seemed to settle nothing.

It had taken a year after the US Open for Pierre to come around.

A full year of silence, of unreturned calls, of Andre pretending it didn’t matter while Blake watched the hurt settle deeper into his bones.

Then one afternoon, Pierre had appeared in the doorway of their flat, holding a box of pastries and wearing the expression of a man who had swallowed something unpleasant but necessary.

His apology had been gruff, short, and delivered mostly to the floor.

Andre had stood in the hallway, frozen, until Pierre had looked up and said, “Well? Are you going to let me in or not?”

Claire had arrived a week later with a suitcase and a photograph of Andre as a small boy holding his first racket. She had hugged Blake before she hugged her son, pressing her face into his shoulder and whispering "merci" so quietly that Blake almost missed it.

Now Pierre ran the bakery on the ground floor, complaining about the English weather, the English flour, and the English customers who didn’t understand that a proper croissant required patience.

Claire managed the books and kept the display case stocked with the lavender shortbread that had become the neighborhood’s open secret.

On weekday mornings, a line of regulars stretched out the door before seven.

Pierre still slipped extra croissants into Blake’s racket bag when he thought no one was looking.

Blake sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

The hardwood floor was cool under his feet.

He stretched, his shoulders popping, the lingering soreness from yesterday’s practice session pulling at his muscles.

He was preparing for the grass-court season, and Doug Wexler, Blake’s coach, had been pushing him hard — two-hour sessions in the morning, fitness work in the afternoon, video analysis in the evening.

Being ranked number four in the world required a level of maintenance that sometimes felt like a second job.

“Come back to bed,” Andre said from behind the pillow.

“I can’t. I need to eat before I run.”

“You and your running.” Andre pulled the pillow away, propping himself up on one elbow. His dark eyes tracked Blake as he moved across the room, pulling on a pair of running shorts and a faded t-shirt. “You know, normal people drink coffee first.”

“Normal people aren’t playing Queen’s Club in two weeks.”

“Normal people are happier.”

Blake laughed, walking back to the bed. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to Andre’s forehead, then his nose, then his mouth. Andre’s hand came up, curling around the back of Blake’s neck, holding him there.

The kiss deepened. Andre’s mouth was warm and slow, tasting of sleep and the faintest trace of last night’s wine.

Blake felt the familiar pull, the gravity that had been drawing him toward this man since the first time they’d faced each other in a first round match at the Junior French Open, two teenagers on a back court at Roland Garros who had no idea what they were starting.

“If you keep doing that,” Blake murmured against his lips, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“That is the idea,” Andre said, pulling him closer.

Blake resisted for exactly three seconds before climbing back into bed.

An hour later, they were downstairs.

The bakery was warm and bright, the display cases already filled with the morning’s offerings — croissants, pain au chocolat, sourdough loaves, and a tray of Claire’s lavender shortbread arranged in neat rows. The air was thick with the smell of butter and yeast and strong coffee.

Pierre was behind the counter, his thick forearms dusted with flour, arguing with a delivery driver about the quality of the butter. Claire was arranging a vase of fresh flowers near the register, humming something soft and French.

“Ah, the champions arrive,” Pierre said, not looking up from the invoice he was examining with deep suspicion. “You are late. The croissants are almost gone.”

“It’s seven-thirty, Papa,” Andre said, sliding onto a stool at the small counter near the window. “The shop has been open for twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes is a lifetime in bread,” Pierre said gravely.

Claire brought them coffee without being asked — a double espresso for Andre, a flat white for Blake. She kissed Andre on both cheeks, then squeezed Blake’s arm with a warm, familiar affection.

“You look tired,” she said to Blake, studying his face. “Are you sleeping enough?”

“He sleeps fine,” Andre said quickly, avoiding his mother’s eyes.

Pierre snorted, a sound that conveyed both disapproval and reluctant amusement.

Blake ate two croissants and a piece of the sourdough, spreading it thick with the salted butter that Pierre imported from Normandy at an expense he refused to discuss.

Andre picked at a pain au chocolat, scrolling through his phone with his free hand.

“You are not eating,” Pierre observed, his eyes narrowing at his son.

“I’m eating.”

“You are dismantling. That is not the same.”

“Papa.”

“You need fuel. You have a tournament in—”

“I don’t have a tournament for three weeks,” Andre said, setting down his phone. “And I’m not sure I’m playing it.”

The silence that followed was heavy and immediate.

Pierre looked at Andre, then at Blake, then back at Andre. Claire stopped arranging the flowers.

“What do you mean, you are not sure?” Pierre asked, his voice carefully neutral.

“I mean I’m thinking about it. The studio is busy. I have three commissions due, and the Whitfield Gallery wants to discuss a solo exhibition. I might skip Hamburg.”

Pierre’s jaw tightened. Blake recognized the expression — it was the same one Pierre wore when a customer asked for gluten-free bread.

“You are ranked number seven in the world,” Pierre said slowly, as if explaining something to a child. “You do not skip tournaments.”

“I skip tournaments all the time. I skipped Dubai.”

“Dubai is in the desert. Hamburg is on grass. You need grass-court matches before Wimbledon.”

“I hate grass.”

“You made the quarterfinals at Wimbledon last year.”

“A fluke.”

Blake stayed quiet, eating his croissant, his eyes moving between father and son. He had learned, over the past two years of living above the bakery, that the Moreau family communicated through food and argument in roughly equal measure. Intervening was pointless and potentially dangerous.

Claire, with the practiced calm of a woman who had spent thirty years managing Pierre’s temper, placed a fresh croissant on Andre’s plate and said, “Eat. Both of you stop talking about tennis. It is too early.”

Pierre opened his mouth, then closed it. He picked up the invoice and returned to his argument with the butter.

Andre caught Blake’s eye across the counter and smiled — a small, private smile that said thank you for not saying anything.

Blake smiled back and stole the last piece of sourdough.

The practice courts at the Queen’s Club were immaculate, the grass trimmed to a precise, uniform height that would have satisfied a surgeon. Blake arrived at nine forty-five, fifteen minutes early, his racket bag over his shoulder and Pierre’s contraband croissant tucked into the side pocket.

Doug, was already there, standing at the net with a basket of balls, his arms crossed, his expression suggesting that nine-forty-five was somehow late.

“Morning,” Blake said, dropping his bag on the bench.

“You’re stiff,” Doug observed, watching Blake stretch. “Left shoulder?”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. I can see it from here. We’ll do twenty minutes of movement work before we hit.”

Blake didn’t argue. Doug had been coaching him since the junior circuit, longer than almost anyone else in Blake’s life had stuck around, and the man had an almost supernatural ability to read Blake’s body.

He could spot a tight hamstring from across the court, diagnose a mechanical flaw in Blake’s serve from a single toss, and predict exactly when Blake was about to lose his temper.

They worked in silence for the first hour — movement drills, serve practice, baseline rallies with a hitting partner. Blake fell into the rhythm of it, the crisp pop of the ball against the strings, the burn in his legs as he pushed from corner to corner.

This was where he felt most himself. Not the press conferences, not the sponsor events, not the endless cycle of airports and hotel rooms. Here, on the court, with a racket in his hand and the simple, brutal clarity of competition.

“Good,” Doug said, feeding him a ball to the backhand side. “Now step in. Don’t wait for it. Take it on the rise.”

Blake adjusted, moving forward, taking the ball earlier. The shot flew off his racket with a sharp, clean sound, landing deep in the corner.

“Better. Again.”

They worked for another hour. By the time Doug called a break, Blake was drenched in sweat, his shirt clinging to his back, his legs trembling slightly.

He sat on the bench, drinking water, watching the other players on the adjacent courts. The grass-court season was approaching, and the club was full of professionals fine-tuning their games. “Where’s Andre today?” Doug asked, sitting beside him. “Studio. He has commissions.”

Doug nodded slowly. He didn’t say anything for a moment, but Blake could feel the question forming.

“He’s talking about skipping Hamburg,” Blake said, preempting it.

“I know. He told me last week.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him it was his decision.” Doug paused. “But I also told him that if he drops out of the top ten, it’s going to be very hard to climb back.”

Blake looked down at his racket, turning it in his hands. “He doesn’t care about the ranking anymore. Not the way he used to.”

“I know,” Doug said quietly. “And that’s his right. But it’s also my job to tell him the truth.”

Blake nodded. He understood the tension — he felt it himself, every time Andre chose the studio over the practice court, every time a canvas took priority over a training session.

He was proud of Andre’s art, genuinely and completely proud.

But there was a part of him — a small, competitive, selfish part — that missed the rivalry.

Missed the fire in Andre’s eyes when they faced each other across the net.

Missed the feeling of playing against someone who pushed him to his absolute limit.

Beating Andre had become easier over the past year, and it troubled Blake in ways he couldn’t fully articulate. The victories felt hollow, incomplete, as if he were winning a game that his opponent had already decided to forfeit.

“He’s brilliant, you know,” Blake said suddenly. “The paintings. They’re really good.”

Doug smiled. “I know. Claire showed me photos. I don’t understand art, but even I could see it.”

“He’s found something,” Blake said. “Something that makes him happy in a way tennis never did.”

“And that scares you,” Doug said.

Blake looked at him. “Why would that scare me?”

Doug held his gaze for a moment, then stood up, brushing the grass from his shorts. “Break’s over. Let’s work on your return of serve.”

Blake watched him walk back to the baseline, the unanswered question hanging in the warm morning air.